The light is critical: of me, of thislong-dreamed, involuntary landingon the arm of an inland sea.The glitter of the shoaldepleting into shadowI recognize: the stand of pinesviolet-black really, green in the old postcardbut really I have nothing but myselfto go by; nothingstands in the realm of pure necessityexcept what my hands can hold.

Nothing but myself?....My selves.After so long, this answer.As if I had always knownI steer the boat in, simply.The motor dying on the pebblescicadas taking up the humdropped in the silence.

Anger and tenderness: my selves.And now I can believe they breathe in meas angels, not polarities.Anger and tenderness: the spider's geniusto spin and weave in the same actionfrom her own body, anywhere --even from a broken web.